“Yes, Mr Bayle; and it was of no use my speaking. No end of things to see to; but the doctor would have me come with him.”
“I think the doctor was quite right, Mrs Luttrell.”
“There you are. You see, my dear? What did I tell you? Plants must have air, mustn’t they, Bayle?”
“Certainly.”
“I wish you would not talk like that, my dear. I am not a plant.”
“But you want air,” cried the doctor, giving his whip a flick, and making his sturdy cob jump.
“Oh! do be careful, my dear,” cried Mrs Luttrell nervously as she snatched at the whip.
“Oh, yes, I’ll be careful. I say, Bayle, I wish you would look in as you go by; I forgot to open the cucumber-frame, and the sun’s coming out strong. Just lift it about three inches.”
“I will,” said the curate; and the doctor drove on to see a patient half-a-dozen miles away.
“Well, you often tell me I’m a very foolish woman, my dear,” said Mrs Luttrell, buttoning and unbuttoning the chaise-apron with uneasy fingers, “but I should not have done such a thing as that.”